Brad Culley Mysteries Collection E-Book

Janeen Ann O'Connell

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

All three books in Janeen Ann O'Connell's 'Brad Culley Mysteries' series, now in one volume!

Ebony Makepeace Is Dead: After an encounter with the Café Man, Ebony’s life as she knows it no longer exists. Everyone around her think she's dead. Moving Ebony into his house overlooking Port Phillip Bay, the man introduces himself as Bradley, claiming to have saved her life. The more time she spends in his house, the more comfortable she feels. Meanwhile, Brad’s best friend, police detective Ryan Sanderson helps facilitate Ebony’s "murder" and burial, and tries to keep his partner off Brad’s trail. As the net around them tightens, Brad and Ebony work tirelessly to find out who wanted her dead. But can she cheat death a second time?

The Betrayal Of Ebony Makepeace: Still living in Bradley's townhouse on the Altona foreshore, Ebony is struggling to build a new life for herself.  She needs to escape. Meanwhile, Brad grapples with his criminal brother, the death of his mother, Wilhelmina, and disappearing money. Can they find out what really happened to Bradley's mother, and will Ebony return to him... or are they already too far apart?

The Revenge Of Ebony Makepeace: Brad Culley’s life has descended into chaos. Meanwhile, Ebony takes the first steps into a new life. As Brad and his friend Sandy learn more about Ebony’s plans, the opportunity to recover the missing money, and the fugitives responsible for stealing it, diminishes. Depending on his uncle, his friend, and the police, Brad waits for justice to be served.

Leseprobe

BRAD CULLEY MYSTERIES COLLECTION

THE COMPLETE SERIES

JANEEN ANN O'CONNELL

CONTENTS

Ebony Makepeace is Dead

Acknowledgments

1. The Shooter

2. Ebony

3. Ebony

4. Ebony

5. Brad

6. Ebony

7. Brad

8. Ebony

9. Brad

10. Ebony

11. Brad

12. Ebony

13. Sanderson (Sandy)

14. Brad

15. Ebony

16. Brad

17. Ebony

18. Sanderson (Sandy)

19. Brad

20. Ebony

21. Sanderson (Sandy)

22. Brad

23. Sanderson (Sandy)

24. Ebony

25. Sanderson (Sandy)

26. Ebony

27. Sanderson (Sandy)

28. Ebony

29. Sanderson (Sandy)

30. Brad

The Betrayal of Ebony Makepeace

Acknowledgements

Chapter A1

Chapter B1

1. Brad

2. Brad

3. Ebony

4. Brad

5. Brad

6. Sandy

7. Brad

Chapter 8

9. Sandy

10. Tomy

11. Brad

12. Ebony

13. Brad

14. Ebony

15. Brad

16. Ebony

17. Brad

18. Sandy

19. Brad

20. Brad

21. Sandy

22. Brad

23. Brad

24. Ebony

25. Brad

26. Sandy

27. Brad

28. Sandy

29. Brad

30. Ebony

31. Brad

Epilogue

The Revenge of Ebony Makepeace

Acknowledgments

Chapter A1

Chapter B1

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

4. Six months ago. Phillip and Ebony

5. Two months ago. Phillip and Ebony

6. One week ago. Phillip and Ebony

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

9. Phillip and Ebony

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

12. Ebony

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

15. Phillip

Chapter 16

17. Ebony

Chapter 18

19. Ebony and Phillip

Chapter 20

21. Ebony

Chapter 22

23. Ebony and Phillip

Chapter 24

25. Ebony and Phillip

26. Ebony

Chapter 27

28. Phillip and Ferdinand

Chapter 29

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2023 Janeen Ann O'Connell

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2023 by Next Chapter

Published 2023 by Next Chapter

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

EBONY MAKEPEACE IS DEAD

BRAD CULLEY MYSTERIES BOOK 1

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Much thanks to my Alpha Reader, Denise Wood, and Beta Readers: Ally Britnell and Diana McGlinn

1

THE SHOOTER

She hunched over the table. Her long, dark, dank hair formed a curtain around the sides of her face. She wrote furtively, checking every few minutes to see if anyone was watching. I caught her eye; a glimpse of despair emanated from the wide, brown spheres. She turned away from my gaze. Head down, hunched over her secret, she kept writing.

I sauntered over to the table and sat down opposite her. She smelled of musk, a pleasant musk, not mouldy or stale as I had imagined. Her clothes, although dated and worn, were clean. She was writing with a pencil so badly chewed on the end, that the lead protruded through the ragged pieces of wood. Her fists clenched and her knuckles whitened. She kept writing. Her head was so low over her work, that the hair curtain now covered the front of her face.

I cleared my throat. ‘Nice bit of rain we are having.’

She ignored me. It wasn’t the ignoring that stunk of arrogance; it was different, as if she didn’t hear me. I sat for a few more minutes watching her, her head almost resting on the table.

I’d watched her come to this café most mornings for two weeks. The café had a nice ambience, not my scene. I am a trendy fellow, and this place was, well, mundane. There was nothing about its décor to set it apart from any other café on a suburban strip. But something drew her to it. The staff perhaps?

With my right hand, I reached into my jacket and slid the small gun out from its hiding place. Resting it on my lap, I touched the tip to make sure the silencer was still attached. I would wait for the right moment.

This was the second time I’d been told to kill someone. She was my target. The instructions were brief, but clear. I was expected to point the gun that hid on my lap at her abdomen, pull the trigger, put the gun back in my jacket, and walk away.

The security cameras would record me approaching her table, would watch as I attempted small talk and would take no heed when I got up from the table to leave. They would not identify me because my disguise had me looking so ordinary, no one would look twice. But this was conjecture, I hadn’t pulled the trigger yet. She raised her head and stared through my disguise into my soul.

‘Why do you think you can encroach on my space?’ she hissed. ‘I am using every ounce of strength I can muster to prevent myself from leaning over the table and slapping your smug, superior expression. Go away, leave me alone.’

The menace she tried to force into her voice struggled to find its way out. Instead, she was left with a rasp that bordered on a whisper. Her intent was clear, however: she wanted me away from her, to leave her alone. But that was not for her to say.

‘I don’t know what you have done,’ I whispered across the table. ‘You may not know either, but you have pissed off someone powerful. Don’t speak. Listen.’

A glimmer of fear washed over her face, and she nodded ever so slightly.

‘Under the table, I have a loaded gun fitted with a silencer, pointed at your abdomen. You should have started bleeding three minutes ago.’

She frowned; confusion burrowed its way into her eyes.

‘The only way you will live is to pretend you are dead. I am going to shoot you. I won’t shoot to kill, but I do have to shoot you. I’m going to smile at you, a nasty, vindictive, self-satisfied smile, and when I get up to walk away, you will drop your head to the table. If you’re unnoticed, fall off the chair onto the floor. Chaos will ensue. They will call an ambulance. If you are not unconscious, pretend to be. When my employers look over the camera footage, they will see I’ve done my job and you’ve collapsed on the floor, presumed dead. Or, at the very least, dying. If you don’t follow my instructions, we will both die.

‘I will organise your death.’ I raised my index fingers and indicated quotation marks around the word death. ‘Just do as I say. You will see me soon.’

She stared into my very being.

I squeezed the trigger.

2

EBONY

Ebony Makepeace lay prone on the ambulance stretcher, eyes closed, breathing shallow. A paramedic used scissors to cut open her shirt and her jeans. It annoyed her; the jeans were from an op shop and the only pair she had found that fitted comfortably. Should I be worrying about my clothes? she wondered. How badly am I hurt? As the question was about to form itself into words, a paramedic clamped an oxygen mask onto her face, stifling her attempt to communicate.

‘It’s going to be all right,’ the paramedic soothed while attaching a blood pressure pad to her arm and an oxygen reader to her finger.

‘I don’t believe you,’ Ebony whispered into the oxygen mask. ‘You are frowning and look worried.’ Then darkness swallowed her consciousness.

* * *

‘Welcome back.’ The woman’s voice startled Ebony, and she turned her head quickly to the side to see who was speaking.

‘It’s okay. You are safe. You’re in Recovery. You’ve had surgery, and the bullet has been removed. No damage to internal organs. Very lucky girl. We’ll take you to your room shortly. The police are waiting to speak to you.’ The woman smiled at Ebony, then turned her attention to someone else.

While the bed was being wheeled out of Recovery and to a room, Ebony tried to focus on what had happened to her. Thoughts and images swirled around in her mind like clothes in a washing machine. She couldn’t pick one item to concentrate on. They all cluttered her head, scrambling for attention. With the bed in place in the room, the equipment designed to monitor her condition plugged in and set up, and the pain meds flowing through the IV, Ebony was left to her imaginings.

It was difficult to keep her eyes open, and when through half-closed lids she saw two people walk in, police detectives by their cocky stance and boring clothes, Ebony feigned sleep. There was nothing to say to the police that they would believe. The ramblings of the man who shot her made little sense; how could she relay them to anyone else?

‘Is she sleeping or drugged?’ the male detective asked his colleague.

‘Let’s see,’ the woman offered. ‘Miss Makepeace, Miss Makepeace. We would like to talk to you.’

Panic seeped into Ebony’s being. She wasn’t a good liar, and the truth was unbelievable. The effort to lie still, to not yell at the police to leave her alone, exhausted her. Ebony gave in to the pain-killing drugs that drip, dripped from the blue square machine next to her into the canula in her hand, and hoped the detectives would take the hint.

* * *

‘Would you like a sandwich, Ebony? Do you feel well enough to eat something?’

There were four people in her life who spoke her name, and this woman was not one of them. Ebony’s eyes focussed on the nurse who was checking, adjusting, and fussing over the automated drug machine next to Ebony’s bed.

‘Yes, please.’

She thanked the nurse, who placed a sandwich cut into four triangles on the tray alongside her, and raised the back of the bed so she was sitting up enough to eat.

‘You’re welcome, dear. The bell is right next to your hand. Press it if you need anything.’

With her right hand, Ebony reached out for the plate with the sandwich on it. She wasn’t hungry, but had agreed to eat, thinking she might need her strength. The ham, cheese, and tomato sandwich stayed uneaten on the plate. Ebony had been a vegetarian all her adult life and was not about to eat a sandwich with ham in it for any reason.

Putting her head back on the pillow, she tried to work through the events that had led to this moment.

* * *

The café, usually quiet on a Tuesday morning, had brimmed with chatter coming from groups of people ensconced on the benches, arms around each other or spread on the tables. It annoyed her. Why couldn’t they find another café? She came to this one because it was quiet from Monday to Thursday. Even the music had changed. The speakers in the corners, hanging precariously from the ceiling on little hooks, whispered gentle melodies on other days— great music to have in the background while she wrote. Today’s music was straight from a mainstream, cookie cutter radio station.

Standing for a moment, Ebony grappled with the thought of leaving and finding another place.

‘Good morning. Let me show you to a table.’ The waitress with the ivory skin, coal black hair, and deep green eyes led Ebony to a small table in the far corner of the café. ‘There are only two chairs,’ she said as she handed Ebony the menu. ‘Put your coat on the back of that one so you’ll be left alone.’

‘Why is it so busy today?’

‘University students passing through on the way to a conference of some sort.’ The waitress pulled a pen and notepad out of her apron pocket. ‘The boss is pleased. Even if we are not.’

‘I’m not pleased,’ added Ebony. ‘I come here because it’s quiet.’

‘Ignore them and concentrate on your writing. They’ll leave soon enough.’

Ebony thanked the girl, who must’ve been in her early twenties, and ordered a cheese toasty and flat white.

She’d finished her toasty and the last dregs of the flat white pooled in the bottom of the coffee cup, when the man ignored her coat and sat on the chair opposite. The fake tan on his face and hands was a shade too dark for his complexion, and the light brown beard speckled with grey covering his cheeks and chin needed a trim. Is it real?

He wore casual clothes that looked tailor made, and his expensive brand name sports shoes had the “just out of the box” look. She glared at him when he spoke, hissed in his face that he had no right to bother her and to go away. He didn’t go away. What was he talking about that she had pissed off someone important? Why did he have to shoot her?

* * *

Ebony had a restless night. The events of Tuesday morning, the pain in her side from the surgery, and the fear of “why me” played with her psyche, daring sleep to envelop her. With her eyes closed, going over the events in the café again, trying to recall every little detail, she did not hear the detectives come in.

‘Miss Makepeace,’ a female voice shrilled. ‘We must speak with you.’

Ebony was used to working out problems in her head, but most of the ones she grappled with were fictitious, part of her story writing process. Should she acknowledge them and answer their questions vaguely? Or should she ignore them and pretend to sleep?

She opted for the answer behind box number one—knowing they would keep coming back until she spoke to them. Ebony opened her eyes slowly, as if she were waking from a long sleep.

‘Who are you?’

‘Hello Miss Makepeace. I am Detective Sanderson, and this is Detective Tomy,’ the officer said, waving to the woman standing at the end of the bed. ‘Her name is pronounced toe me for future refence.’ He smirked at the woman. ‘We want to chat about the shooting.’

‘All right,’ Ebony said. She did not need to sound feeble or vulnerable. Her voice was raspy and her throat sore. The breathing tube from the anaesthetic, she acknowledged to herself.

With the forced smile of someone who had been told to be more affable, Detective Sanderson began. ‘Who shot you?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Had you seen him before?’

‘No. How do you know it was a him?’ Ebony added for dramatic effect.

‘The closed-circuit camera footage,’ Detective Tomy said.

Ebony nodded. She remembered the shooter telling her about the camera.

‘Why would anyone want to shoot you?’ Detective Tomy had a pen poised over an open notebook.

‘I don’t know. I don’t know who it was. I don’t know why he shot me. I was writing, minding my own business like I do every time I go to the café.’ Ebony raised her raspy voice, deliberately adding anxiety to its timbre. As if on cue, a nurse came into the room and suggested the detectives come back another day.

Detective Tomy frowned at Ebony and let a drip of malice seep from the side of her mouth. Ebony shivered.

‘Have a rest, Ebony,’ the nurse said. ‘I’ll come back soon and help you into the shower. You’ll feel better.’

* * *

Dinner was a plate of sausages, mashed potatoes, pumpkin, and peas, smothered with what Ebony assumed was gravy. She wasn’t hungry until the smell reached her nostrils. ‘But I am still not hungry enough to eat sausages,’ she mumbled while moving them to one side of the plate with the fork. She ate most of the vegetables, pushed the tray away, and put her head back on the pillow. Ebony started planning her escape.

He snuck in like the detectives had. She hadn’t heard him and didn’t know he was there until he cleared his throat.

Startled, Ebony pulled the covers over herself and demanded to know who he was.

‘It must be a good disguise if you don’t recognise me,’ Café Man said. ‘Or are you still woozy from the drugs?’

‘Both,’ Ebony snarled through gritted teeth. Her heart raced with the panic that he’d come to finish her off, and she fumbled around for the button to call the nurse.

‘I’ve moved that out of your reach. Time to kick up the plan to the next stage,’ he said as he took a syringe out of his pocket and moved towards the IV line that led to the canula in Ebony’s hand.

‘Stop!’ she tried to yell as the world disappeared around her.

Café Man melted into the hallway as the monitors attached to Ebony squealed with the alarm that she was dead.

After fruitless attempts to revive her, Ebony was covered with a sheet and moved to the hospital morgue.

Café Man, disguised as a morgue attendant, helped with the moving of Ebony’s body into the refrigerated locker allocated to her. Paperwork signed, Café Man waited anxiously for the room to empty. Ebony would have to be revived in the next few minutes.

Sliding her out of the locker, Café Man took Ebony’s arm out from under the sheet and pressed a syringe into her skin.

She took longer to arouse than he was led to believe, and panic—panic that he had not felt since his father called him after he had “killed” his brother—coursed through his heart.

As Ebony’s eyes focussed, her body shook and her teeth chattered.

‘Why am I so cold?’ she asked whoever was there.

‘Shock,’ said a voice she knew.

Ebony sat up. It took a few moments for her to realise where she was. ‘What have you done?’ The terror Ebony felt in her gut made its way out into the world.

‘Saved your life by killing you. I’ve filled in the paperwork.’

‘What? What are you talking about? I don’t understand. Why am I here? How will this all pan out when they realise there is no body?’

Ebony still shivered.

Am I cold, terrified, or both?

‘There will be a body. I will fill in the gaps later. Get dressed. I took the liberty of getting some clothes from your apartment.’

While she was trying to process the events that led to her being on a slab in the morgue, the comment that infuriated her the most, was the one about him being in her apartment.

‘How did you get into my apartment? Who do you think you are?’

‘I’ve told you. I am your saviour. Now get dressed.’

Café Man turned around to give Ebony some privacy. ‘Let me know if you need any help,’ he said to the door.

‘Not likely.’

Hands shaking, Ebony managed to put on her undies by leaning against the table her body had been on. She struggled with the tracksuit pants but was grateful Café Man hadn’t brought jeans. She couldn’t put on her socks, so she slipped her feet into her runners without them. She asked Café Man to do up the laces.

‘I thought you said not likely,’ he mocked while tying them.

He handed her a bag and told her to look inside. There was a brunette wig, sunglasses, and liquid foundation in a tube.

‘What’s with the makeup?’

‘Your skin is naturally pale, and you look even paler now. That will put some colour in your face. I’ll wait while you put it on. The bathroom is over in the corner.’

‘You are going to a lot of trouble,’ Ebony said while Café Man opened the morgue door and led her into the hallway. ‘Why?’

‘Am I? I shot you. I was told to kill you. I chose not to.’

Ebony moved slowly down the hallway to the elevator, wondering how she was going to get out of the hospital without raising suspicion. Even with the disguise, she knew she looked like a patient. But what troubled her most about her situation was not her condition. It was that she sub-consciously, or otherwise, had followed the lead of the man who had shot her.

As if he’d read her thoughts, Café Man said, ‘We’ll get out on level three. You will sit on a seat near the elevator, and I will get a wheelchair.’

Relief swept over Ebony like waves lapping the shore.

3

EBONY

Café Man parked in the laneway behind Ebony’s apartment complex and helped her out of the passenger seat. He supported her while they went up two flights of stairs, every step a struggle. Ebony was grateful she lived in a low-rise building.

‘You can go now. Thanks.’ Ebony didn’t look at him. She wanted to pretend he wasn’t there. If she ignored him, he might go away.

‘Are you sure? I’m happy to help. I’ll make a cup of coffee or tea, whatever you prefer.’

‘I don’t want you to help me. You’ve helped me enough. I’d prefer it if you left.’

Although not feeling as forceful as she wanted to sound, Ebony stood with her feet apart, one hand on her hip. The other hand rested on the side of her abdomen.

Café Man took a business card out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Ebony. ‘In case you need something. Because you are dead, you might need my help. Don’t leave this apartment without telling me.’ He bowed slightly at Ebony then jumped down the stairs three at a time.

Fear ran down Ebony’s arm to her shaking hand while she tried to put the key in the door. The rattle of the key entering the lock echoed down the empty hallway. Keeping her head down, she peered through the hair that fell along the sides of her face. Was anyone around? She turned the key and stepped into her apartment. Leaning against the closed door, she breathed slowly, deeply, willing herself to calm down. With her hands still shaking, she locked the door behind her and made her way to the bedroom. The room was tucked away at the back of the apartment as if an afterthought. It had no windows, and as she organised herself for a shower, she wondered why the windowless room hadn’t bothered her before.

The dressing on her wound was waterproof, but while she stood under the steaming, cleansing water in her own shower, Ebony wondered when she should change it. She didn’t even have a general practitioner, the worst illness she ever had was the flu, and she managed that herself with Echinacea, Eucalyptus, and paracetamol. Ah, paracetamol. She would take two tablets with a cup of tea.

Dressed in loose fitting tracksuit pants and a hoodie that was too big for her, Ebony made a cup of tea and sat on the couch to drink it while mulling over her situation. She took the two pain killers. Her feet were in her slippers, socks absent. She couldn’t put a sock on her left foot because of the pain from the surgery.

She fired up her laptop and learnt that alcohol wipes would keep her wound clean, and non-waterproof dressings would help it breathe. She could change the dressing morning and night. The pharmacy would have everything she needed, including more paracetamol. She didn’t want Café Man in her life, but he was the only one who could get the supplies for her. She took the business card he gave her off the table where she’d thrown it and sent him a text outlining the things she needed.

His instant response was a curt, ‘Sure.’

While Ebony rested her head on the back of the couch, she went through the events of Tuesday morning again. The man who sat opposite her was a total stranger. Why was he sent to kill her? Should she put any credence in his story? Of course, she should. She was nursing a 10cm incision on her left side. He killed her, then brought her back to life.

Ebony kept to herself. She had two close friends and wrote books for a living. She didn’t work in an office where she could offend anyone, and communicated with her publisher via email. She saw her parents once a year at Christmas. She was an only child.

The clouds that had threatened to spill their watery contents when Ebony was leaving the hospital finally gave way under the weight and unleashed a downpour, which she was pleased to view from inside her cosy apartment. Rain lashed the living room window and blocked out the view of the park opposite the building.

The weather is reflecting my life,’ she thought. Horrible.’

A gasp of realisation hit Ebony while she watched the rain; he’d told her she would have to leave this apartment, to live somewhere else. She was dead.

The cup of tea went cold while Ebony struggled to put the pieces of her life into order. CaféManhad decided not to kill her. Why? It wasn’t her ravishing, good looks. She deliberately played down her best features by keeping her hair untidy and her clothes unremarkable. Why was she even on his list?

Taking a sip of the tea, Ebony’s mind went back to a time at the café when they had put cold coffee in front of her.

‘Oh my god!’ A jolt of horror ran through Ebony’s body. She jumped up, spilling the tea on her leg and a cushion. ‘Shit. Shit. Shit.’

Ignoring the spilt tea, Ebony hurried into the bedroom, searching for her notebook. Paranoia ― she wrote about it in her novels ― she enjoyed watching her characters panic and drop their bundle when they thought someone was after them. But this time it was real; a killer was after her. He’d jumped from a page in her notebook, the one she’d left behind at the café. She had to retrieve it; her latest book was in those pages.

* * *

Darkness enveloped Ebony’s soul when she slunk down under the covers on her bed. Sleep would evade her, as it did when she was planning some disaster for a character in a story. The plan that would keep her awake tonight wasn’t a new book, it was her escape.

* * *

‘In the movies, people cut their own hair with no drama,’ Ebony yelled into the bathroom mirror. She cut her hair so that it almost looked even on the sides, but the back, goodness knows what that looked like. She’d have to wear a hat.

Ebony sat at the kitchen table checking her emails on the laptop while she waited for the colour to set in her hair. Her publisher wanted to speak to her about the book she had recently submitted and asked her to call.

‘I won’t be,’ she said, noticing a message from Outlook saying the sender asked for a delivery and read receipt, and did she want to respond. She clicked “no”. Her heart jumped into her throat with fear, but she didn’t know why. She turned off the laptop, opening no other emails. She could get them on her phone. At least she still had that connection to her life. How did she still have her phone? Had Café Man forgotten to take it from her?

Ebony’s lightning bolt moment, the moment she realised her life, the life she had grown comfortable in, was over, struck as she turned off the computer. She rested her head on her arms on the table and sobbed. The tears were for her friend Gabrielle, warm, caring, special Gabrielle whom she would never speak to again. She cried for James, her ex-boyfriend, and smiled when she thought how much happier they were as friends and not lovers. Tears ran for her parents. Although she wasn’t close to them, and only went to Far North Queensland once a year, they were her Mum and Dad. To them all, she was dead.

* * *

Standing in front of the mirror drying her hair, Ebony decided she was happy with the colour. It suited her, and the wonky haircut didn’t look as bad in blonde. She dressed in the new clothes Café Man had picked up for her, put on some lipstick—which she found at the bottom of a drawer in the bathroom—and sunglasses. She was Felicity Browning, the main character in her latest series: stylish, poised, confident. If only.

Pleased to have captured Felicity Browning’s look, Ebony sat on the couch waiting for Café Man to text that he was at the door.

‘Good morning,’ he said, walking into Ebony’s living room as if it were his own. ‘Why are you dressed like Felicity Browning?’

Ebony’s mouth dropped open. Her head moved forward, and her brow furrowed. ‘How do you know about Felicity Browning?’

‘I’ve read your books, Ebony. So, why are you dressed like her?’

‘I want to get my notebook. It must be at the café.’

‘I imagine it is. But you are not going to get it. I will. Tell me about it in case they won’t give it to me.’

Ebony explained the small details of her precious notebook to this horrid stranger.

‘When I get back, you will be ready to leave. It’s time you died and moved on to your new life.’

He left before Ebony could offer any resistance.

The café was busy. Café Man looked around for Tuesday morning’s server. He couldn’t see her. He waited to be guided to a seat before tackling the person taking his order. ‘Hello, a friend of mine was in here last Tuesday. She was shot.’ Café Man watched the girl’s face blanch. ‘Do you know about that?’

‘Yes. It was terrible. We are all very upset.’

‘As you should be. The young lady was a friend of mine.’

‘Was?’ the girl asked.

‘Oh, yes, you might not know. She died on Friday.’

The girl sat down opposite Café Man. ‘From the gunshot?’

‘No. Heart failure.’

‘Oh, dear. So young. How can I help?’

‘She was an author. It appears her notebook was left behind when the ambulance took her away. I can’t find it anywhere, and her publisher would like to have it.’

‘I’ll see if it is in the office.’

A few minutes passed before the young woman reappeared, but to Café Man’s angst, no notebook in her possession.

‘There is a book. The boss said to ask you what colour it is, and what is written on the first page.’

‘It is black, A4 paper size. It has a penholder on the side, but she wrote with a pencil which is probably lost. The first page has a quote from Jim Thompson “There is only one plot ― things are not what they seem.”

The waitress walked to the back of the café through the doors marked “staff only”. Café Man waited. Relief washed over him like the shower he took after he “disposed” of his brother. The girl handed him the notebook.

‘Thank you. May I please order a cheese toasty and a flat white with soy milk?’ The waitress nodded and toddled off to fill Café Man’s order.

4

EBONY

Ebony unlocked the door when Café Man knocked. ‘Did you get it? Did you?’

He handed her the notebook. ‘Did you pack? Did you?’

Ebony pulled the notebook into her, then held it at arm’s length, taking in the comfort it gave her.

‘I repeat. Did you pack? A few things. Not much.’

‘Not yet,’ Ebony confessed. I was too anxious to concentrate. I forgot what you said to do.’

Café Man sighed a sigh of exasperation. ‘Put the book down and get a small bag. I’ll tell you what NOT to put in it.’

He followed Ebony into the bedroom. ‘No toiletries. You died. You can’t take toiletries to the afterlife. Undies, pyjamas, a tracksuit, socks. Things that won’t be missed. We will buy anything else you need.’

‘How will I be able to buy anything? I won’t have access to my bank account.’

‘Don’t worry about that.’

Ebony threw the things she was told to collect into a backpack. ‘I’m taking the supplies I bought from the pharmacy.’

‘Of course. I’ll make sure you don’t leave any trace of having been here since your death. Sit down and rest while I go through things.’

* * *

‘Come on. Time to go.’

Ebony’s eyes shot open; her heart thumped. ‘You frightened me,’ she complained. ‘Please don’t do that again, Café Man.’

‘My name is Bradley Hector Culley. You can call me Brad. I prefer that to Café Man. Put on your runners. Detectives Sanderson and Tomy are on their way here. I’ve done everything to put the apartment back to the just left, not been here for days look.’

‘I prefer Café Man,’ Ebony sulked. ‘And how do you know the detectives are on their way?’ Her life was unravelling faster than it did last Tuesday.

‘Sanderson is a friend of mine. I’ll explain in the car. Get up. We are going.’

Ebony wiped the tears off her face with the back of her hand as she closed the apartment door behind her. The deposit she’d worked hard to save, the mortgage payments she’d made, the furniture she’d bought, all disappeared behind the dark stained timber door.

She did not need as much help going down the back stairs as she had going up them two days ago, but she leaned on Café Man, anyway. He smelled good. A picture of James’s chiselled body flashed into her mind. She shook her head. She might use Café Man in one of her stories. Stories she would have to write under another name.

She slid onto the passenger’s seat and did up her seat belt. He put her backpack in the cargo space and got into the vehicle.

‘Talk,’ Ebony said before he’d even closed the door.

‘I cannot give you all the information, Ebony,’ he said while checking the reversing camera. ‘But as I said to you last week when I shot you, your life is in danger. I was ordered by, well, you don’t need to know who, to kill you. It seems you have come across information, whether or not you realise it, that could ruin a great big business. They wanted you disposed of. Out of the way. Out of their hair.’

‘How can I be in anyone’s hair? That is ridiculous. I don’t know what you are talking about. What information? And why didn’t you kill me when you were supposed to?’

Brad started the ignition. ‘I didn’t kill you because I do have some principles. I know you are oblivious to your involvement.’

‘Where are we going?’ Ebony demanded. ‘Have my friends been told I died? What about my parents?’

‘The funeral is Thursday this coming week to give your parents time to come down from North Queensland. They’ll go through the things in your apartment and start to sort out your affairs.’

Ebony turned to look out the window. She didn’t want him to see her crying, but the tears streamed down her cheeks, and her sobbing was relentless. He reached out with his left hand and touched her knee. She pushed him away.

‘You said when you resurrected me that there would be a body. Whose body? And how did I die?’

‘It doesn’t matter who. Sandy sorted that for me. And you died of heart failure.’

‘And who is Sandy?’

‘Detective Sanderson. He’s my best friend.’

‘How could someone like you have a best friend?’ she yelled.

‘That’s harsh,’ Brad said checking the rear view mirror. ‘We are nearly there. Leave any other questions until we get you settled.’

Ebony folded her arms across her chest and stared through the windscreen. It was all too much.

5

BRAD

The phone my father contacts me on vibrated in my jacket pocket.

‘Hello,’ I said when I swiped to answer. One doesn’t call my father “Dad” or any other term of endearment. When necessary I call him “Father”. He calls me “Junior”, not my name. My name is Bradley. Bradley Hector Culley — not Junior. There is no “Jr” after my name. I am the second son, and neither my older brother nor I were named after our father. I answer to whatever he calls me. It makes life easier.

‘Come into the office, Junior,’ he ordered. ‘Now.’

Without answering him, I hung up the phone and did up the seat belt in my black SUV. I like the SUV; it isn’t pretentious like the cars my father gets driven around in. It’s a hybrid and has all the bells and whistles you’d expect from a vehicle at the top end of the range. I’m not exactly slumming it. But from the outside, it looks like any other SUV.

Pushing the button to have the window go down, I waved my pass in front of the carpark scanner and waited for the barrier to raise. I don’t have the luxury of a space with “reserved” on it, but there are plenty of free spaces allocated to the company.

My father’s office is on the third floor of this modest building on Exhibition Street, Melbourne. He doesn’t believe in spending money on flashy offices when modest will do. Pity he doesn’t feel the same way about his cars.

One of his bodyguards, I like to call them “accessories” because they hang off him all the time, waited to escort me to, and up in, the elevator. The mind boggles to think that a twenty-eight-year-old man who was ordered to kill another human being can’t make his way up an elevator and into an office. At least the accessory smells nice. I thought about asking him the name of his cologne, but although it wasn’t cheap and nasty, probably wasn’t on my preferred list of “suppliers”.

Father likes his accessories. He likes the burly, brainless guardians who serve him twenty-four-seven. I followed this one like a lost puppy.

‘Hello Junior. Sit down.’

I didn’t respond to his greeting. He didn’t expect me to. I sat obediently and crossed my legs, waiting for the inquisition.

‘Is that girl dead? One of my observers thought you missed the mark, and they took her to hospital.’

‘She was taken to hospital. I didn’t miss the mark. She died a couple of days later, but you would know that. I’m sure you’ve contacted the coroner. Pity, she was an interesting character.’

Father leaned back in his chair, glaring at me with those piercing grey eyes. The eyes my brother inherited. I have our mother’s eyes. Thank God.

He folded his arms over his rotund belly. He’d been in the good paddock for some time.

‘Yes, we contacted the coroner. The autopsy said heart failure was the cause of death.’

I smirked to myself. Sandy had done a good job.

‘Well done, Junior. Are you going to the funeral?’

I almost choked on fresh air. Well, the air in my father’s office wasn’t exactly fresh, but there didn’t appear to be any nasties floating around in it.

‘Why would I go to the funeral?’

‘Some assassins like to see their victims laid to rest. Gives them closure.’

I was speechless. How do you react when your father sees you as an assassin? What did he find in me that led him to believe I could kill another human being?

I cleared my throat. ‘No, I am not going to the funeral.’

‘As you wish. Did you get her notebook?’

My father’s question threw me off kilter. How did he know Ebony had a notebook?

‘What notebook?’ I asked, feigning ignorance.

‘She kept a notebook. I want it. I want to know what is in it. Where is it?’

‘It must be at the café,’ I sputtered, trying to keep my cool. ‘I’ll spin some sort of yarn that ensures they give it to me.’

Satisfied with my responses, my father dismissed me, and Accessory Two escorted me into the elevator and down to my car.

Seriously?

I called Sandy before I pressed the button to start the ignition. ‘I’m leaving my father’s office,’ I said without waiting for the “hello”. ‘He appeared placated, believing that our writer is indeed dead.’

‘Hello, Brad,’ Sandy sniggered. ‘Yes, I’m well. Thanks for asking.’

‘Don’t be cute. I’m trying to keep you in the loop. How are you handling the investigation? Can you trust Tomy?’

‘There is no reason not to. She is tenacious but not stupid. When the obvious avenues are exhausted and we do not find a killer, Tomy will move the file into the too hard basket. But it will not go away, Brad. You and I should chat over a drink. I can’t talk at work. Meet me tonight at Claude’s.’

We hung up simultaneously. I love my friendship with Sandy. I never have to explain myself.

Accessory Two was still standing by the elevator when I finally pushed the ignition button in the SUV. He was obeying his instructions literally, watching until I left the car park. I so wanted to open the window and yell that Elvis was leaving the building, but that would have gone right over his head.

* * *

Claude’s is a bar Sandy and I have frequented since we were at university together. Yes, apart from being a dashing twenty-eight year old, single man, I also have an accounting degree. Sandy has a law degree, but applied to the Victoria Police as soon as he graduated. Wasting time as an article clerk wasn’t for him.

Claude’s is tucked away in a well-hidden laneway in Melbourne. Well, it was well-hidden until the last couple of years. Now the well-hidden laneways are trendy, and the Gen Z’s are squeezing the breath out of priceless little spots like Claude’s.

I had trouble finding an empty table with two seats, and when I did, sat facing the door waiting for my friend. I waved the server away with an endearing smile. She would come back when she saw Sandy at the table.

I took my phone out of my pocket and revisited the text messages between Ebony and me. She has no idea what she’s done to deserve the wrath of my father. Neither do I. Apparently, she was a threat to the family business. In my father’s mind that’s the only excuse one needs to take a life.

My brother had been a threat to the family business too.

Sandy sat in the chair opposite. ‘Did you order?’

‘What?’ I asked startled. I hadn’t seen him come in, I was so lost in the memories of my older brother and his grey, piercing eyes.

‘Did you order?’

‘No. I did not. You complain if I order before you get here, you shit.’

‘Just checking.’

Sandy —that’s what everyone calls him. Most people don’t even know his first name is Ryan, took off his jacket, put it on the back of his chair, brushed the shoulders, and sat down as if he were joining the Queen for brunch. Hopeless.

I smiled beatifically at the server, and she sauntered over.

‘What can I get you, gentlemen?’ she asked.

We each ordered a beer, and I got a plate of loaded fries for us to share.

‘So, what’s going on?’ Sandy was straight to the point.

‘Do you have any idea why Miss Makepeace was chosen for elimination?’

He laughed loudly, only stifling the noise when he realised he’d drawn the attention of other patrons.

‘Come on, Brad. I don’t even talk to your father. How would I know?’

‘Just making sure.’

The beers arrived, and I took a gulp of the cold, amber liquid. Sighing with satisfaction as I put the glass on the table. ‘I’m going to have to find out. She intrigues me. She’s so ordinary. What could she possibly have, on my father or his company? I think the answer is in her notebook. Father asked me if I had it. He wants it.’

‘Do you? Have it?’

Sandy’s glass was almost empty when the food arrived. He ordered another and asked if I would like one.

No. One is enough for me on a Tuesday night.

‘She has the notebook,’ I told my friend. ‘I got it from the café for her. The ambos left it on the table, and a waitress squirrelled it away in a locker.’

Nodding as if he understood everything, Sandy picked up his fork and attacked the loaded fries. ‘I didn’t think I was hungry until these hit the table.’

Sandy isn’t a crooked cop. On the contrary, he is straight down the line. Except when he’s protecting me. They could charge me with murder, but I didn’t kill anyone. The body in the morgue is an unidentified young woman with an uncanny resemblance to Ebony. She died of natural causes if you can call a drug overdose, causing heart failure, natural. No identification. She had been on ice for three weeks, with no-one coming forward to claim her. So they will bury her as Ebony Makepeace.

‘So, let’s recap and make a plan,’ I said, hearing my grandmother in my ear: Don’t speak while you have a mouthful. ‘I’ll start. From the beginning.

‘Number one, Father summons me, saying he has discovered a threat. A threat to the company, to him, and the threat must be vanquished. Yes, he used the word “vanquished”. I watched my prey for a couple of weeks, working out her routines, observing her life. I liked her, I liked her weird attire, her aloof presence. I liked how predictable she was. I approached you, Sandy, to see what I could do.

‘Number two, you came up with the idea to wound her, not kill her, but she had to be on board.

‘Number three, I convinced her, when I sat down at her table, that she was in danger and to follow my lead. She did. She wasn’t a fan of being killed and resurrected though,’ I said through melted cheese and bacon bits.

‘What does Miss Makepeace say about all of this?’ Sandy asked as he scoffed the last of the fries.

‘Wipe your face. You have sauce all over your chin. She is confused, sad, heart-broken, and incredulous.’

After eating two-thirds of the loaded fries, Sandy leaned back in his chair. He didn’t look comfortable, but I let it slide. He sat for a few minutes rocking slightly, eyes darting from left to right, a frown appearing and disappearing, biting his lower lip as his mind ticked over.

I waited.

‘First, you have to get the notebook and look through it. Whatever reason your father decided she had to die is in that notebook. He asked you for it, didn’t he?’

I nodded. Speaking seemed pointless.

‘By the way, the bullet they took out of her in the hospital is missing. Appears the chain of evidence has collapsed.’

‘Thank you, Sandy. Are you sure you’re okay with this?’

‘No, I’m not okay with this. But I had to make a choice to save her life and yours. It seemed a small price to pay for both. I’ve covered up for now, and as long as your father doesn’t get suspicious and start snooping, we’ll be good.’

The server came over to the table to see if we wanted anything else. We each ordered a coffee.

6

EBONY

Ebony looked through the peephole in the door and groaned when she saw Brad on the other side. He had settled her temporarily in a hotel room in the city overlooking the Melbourne Cricket Ground. It wasn’t really a hotel room per se, Ebony had thought when Brad swiped the entry card to let her in. It had a small kitchen, a large bedroom, and a huge open living dining area. The bathroom was luxurious; the spa occupied an area as big as the bathroom and laundry in her own apartment.

Opening the door just wide enough to speak to him without letting him in, she hissed, ‘What do you want?’

‘You are going to have to let me in. I cannot speak to you through a gap in the door.’

Ebony sighed the sigh of someone exasperated with her situation, but with little recourse to change it. She stepped back, opened the door, and let Brad show himself in. He was, after all, paying for the room.

He sat at the dining table. ‘Why don’t you make us a coffee, then you can hear me out.’ Bradley clasped his hands together on the table, waiting for Ebony to do as he asked.

Ebony put a mug of black coffee in front of Bradley, then set milk and sugar on the table. He can do that himself.

‘Okay,’ Ebony said, sitting down with her hands around her mug. ‘Spill it.’

‘I’ve told you my name. You must not repeat it to anyone. Ever. Do you understand?’

Ebony nodded.

Bradley continued. ‘They gave me an order to kill you.’

‘I know. You told me the day you shot me. And again in the car on the way here.’ Ebony grumbled.

‘Please don’t interrupt. There will be things you know and things you don’t. Please listen and take it seriously.’

‘I watched you for a couple of weeks to get a feel for your routine, the people you mixed with, so I could work out the best place to do the deed. Over the days, I became quite fond of you and did some research. I discovered you are a talented crime writer and realised I had read some of your books. I approached my best friend Detective Sanderson, for help.’

The coffee that had just made it into Ebony’s mouth spluttered over the table. Bradley checked to see none of it made its way to his clothing.

‘How does a police detective fulfill the role of best friend and conspirator?’ Ebony demanded while she wiped the coffee from her face and the table.

‘With difficulty. Anyway. Sandy, that’s what everyone calls him, came up with the plan. My employer is not like the baddies in your books. He doesn’t use high-tech devices like monitoring mobile phones or hacking into people’s computers. The task was straightforward ― you were a problem ― a problem to be dealt with expeditiously.

‘Sandy found a body we could use. A poor girl who looked a lot like you. She died from heart failure brought on by a drug overdose, and no one came to claim her. We would pretend you were dead, and she would become you. Then you would leave town, start a new life with a new name, and I would avert a catastrophe.’

Ebony felt sick. Until this point, she could dismiss the whole scenario as fantasy, but her parents burying a girl without a name, thinking it was her, made her stomach churn.

‘I still don’t get it. Why would anyone want to kill me? I go through life making little ripples on the surface. I don’t make waves. Could it be they are mistaken? They have me confused with someone else?’

‘Sadly, no. It was clear from the beginning that you were the one.’

‘What now?’ Ebony huffed. She put her hands on her lap so Bradley wouldn’t see them shaking. ‘I am so confused, frightened, and alone.’

‘You’re not alone, Ebony. You don’t know me. In fact, I’m the one who put a bullet in your side, so why would you even want to know me. But you can trust me. You must trust me and Sandy. We haven’t gone to all this trouble to see you ignore our warnings and advice. We don’t want you to meet your demise at the hands of some other thug.’

Ebony stood up and paced the room. ‘As I asked before, what now?’ She glared at Bradley, waiting for an acceptable response.

‘For the immediate future, when you go outside these walls, wear the disguise you wear so well. Felicity becomes you. When your new documents arrive, we’ll plan your future. But before then, I need your notebook.’

Ebony’s mouth dropped. ‘Why? It’s personal. It’s the only thing I have left, apart from my phone.’

‘I need it. My employer wants it. And I’ll take your phone. I’ll give you a new one.’

Ebony’s stomach lurched and her head spun. She sat down on the couch, leaning forward with her head on her knees.

‘Your notebook is the key to this, Ebony. Please get it for me.’

‘If you think I’m giving you my notebook, you have another thing coming.’ The venom in Ebony’s voice sprayed around the room. She had never spoken to anyone like that. Ever.

‘Get it for me, please. I’ll copy it for you. At least then you will still have something.’

‘You need a new employer,’ Ebony snarled as she made her way to the bedroom. Pulling the notebook from the drawer in the bedside chest, she pushed it across the kitchen table to Bradley.

Ebony watched as Bradley opened the notebook. She shivered. Her secrets were all in there. The secrets she often put into her stories. He skimmed over the pages without commenting, without looking up, without shifting on his seat.

‘Thank you, Ebony,’ Bradley said, closing the book. ‘I’ll copy it for you tomorrow and bring it back. Is that okay?’

‘Do I have a choice?’

‘No. You see, we have made progress. You do understand the severity of your situation, and although reluctantly, you are cooperating. Thank you. I’ll take my leave now. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

Ebony closed the door behind him.

‘Why does he want that notebook? It’s the fifth one I’ve filled up.’

* * *

Even though he had a swipe card, Brad knocked politely on Ebony’s door. She scrambled off the couch, checked the peephole, and opened the door. He handed her the photocopied version of her notebook. Swollen, clunky, ugly.

‘Thank you. I think,’ she said. ‘Are you coming in?’

‘Thank you, that would be nice.’ Brad closed the door behind him and took up a position on the couch.

‘I want to go to my funeral,’ Ebony spurted. ‘I want to see my parents and my friends for the last time. Can you help me with a disguise?’

‘I told my employer I wasn’t going to your funeral.’

‘So? I wasn’t inviting you.’

Brad smirked. ‘I deserved that one. Yes, I’ll get you a disguise. I’ll go now and bring it back soon. Funeral is Thursday.’

‘I know when my funeral is,’ Ebony snapped. ‘And have you thought about the likelihood of my parents wanting to look at my body? A likeness isn’t the same as the real thing.’

Brad stared at Ebony. ‘Why would anyone want to look at a loved one’s body?’

‘Seriously? Of course they will. I see them once a year. I died suddenly. They’ll want to say goodbye personally.’

‘There’s the answer to your question then,’ Brad quipped. ‘You only see them once a year. If you look a bit different, they can put it down to time. When the funeral is over, we’ll work on your permanent relocation.’

Ebony watched him go, glad to see the back of him, yet wishing he’d stayed longer. She realised she was lonely.

She never got lonely.

7

BRAD

Accessory Two waited for me in the underground car park. He reminded me of an otherworldly creature who spent his life in darkness.

‘I’ll take the notebook,’ he said, stepping forward to prevent me from entering the elevator lobby. ‘Mr Culley does not need to see you.’

‘Is that right?’ I smirked. ‘Then in that case, I don’t have the notebook.’

Shock swam over Accessory Two’s face. He didn’t know how to respond to the obstacle I’d thrown in his path.

‘You’d better call Mr Culley, because I am not handing over the notebook to anyone but him.’

Accessory Two took his mobile out of his pocket, shook his head when there was no service, and put it back in its place. ‘All right then. Follow me.’

‘Seriously! I know my way to my father’s office, you moron.’

‘I don’t care. Follow me. Mr Culley doesn’t want to see you. You’ll have to wait until I’ve told him what you said.’

‘Do you think I’ll get sent to the naughty corner or given a detention?’

Accessory Two’s eyes glazed over. He didn’t know what I was on about.

‘I do not need to see you, Junior,’ my father roared when Accessory Two let me in.

‘Then I don’t need to give you the notebook. I want an explanation as to why it is so important.’

‘That’s none of your concern, Junior.’

The hairs on the back of my neck bristled and my mouth dried up. I so wanted to punch his sanctimonious face.

‘Well, it is my concern, Father. You told me to shoot a young woman. A clever young woman in the prime of her life. You told me to do this without explanation. I obeyed you. Then you told me to get her notebook. I’ve done that. Now, it’s my turn. I want to know what you hope to find in the notebook.’

I stood on the other side of my father’s ample desk, looking at his ample body. ‘I’m waiting,’ I challenged.

‘For what? I don’t know what I’m looking for. I will know when I see it though. I’ll be sure to let you know. Have a nice day.’

And with the wave of his hand, he summarily dismissed me. Again. There was no point arguing.

Next time I’m at Ebony’s, I’ll ask her to show me her copy. I had read through some of the original on another visit, but nothing jumped out at me that would interest my father.

Although my father’s office is unpretentious, he is not. He commands attention from anyone in the room with him; he does not suffer fools, and knows he is always right. The company of which he is CEO, belongs to a powerful lobby group that pressures governments to bend to their will. Fossil fuels are his bread and butter, and my brother, who has a master’s in environmental science, who travelled to the Southern Ocean one year on a Sea Shepherd expedition, who buys nothing containing palm oil, clashes with our old man. Big time. I should say clashed because my brother disappeared one year ago. Two years after our mother died. Ebony could spin my brother’s story into a good yarn.

* * *

Killing my brother was the first deadly assignment my father gave me. Steven Hector Culley ― yes we have the same middle name ― our grandfather’s, found information about an environmental disaster that had been covered up. Well, at least that’s the reason my father gave for the order.

My brother uncovered a few scant notes about acid mine drainage in one of the coal mines in the middle of nowhere, where heavy metals had dissolved and seeped into ground water. Steven challenged our father, threatening to report the company to the Environment Protection Authority and any other organisation that would listen, including the media.

My instructions were clear: get Steven into the car, telling him we were going to look at a new coal mine site. When I had him in the middle of nowhere, I was to shoot him and bury him. Deep.